


an abundance of

by Muir_Wolf



Category: Jumanji (1995)
Genre: F/M, Found Poetry, Poetry, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 11:51:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5742793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muir_Wolf/pseuds/Muir_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Found poetry pulled entirely from "One and Two Total Three, Run Away From the Zombie" by the always </i>stellar<i> notalwaysweak</i></p><p>Alan Parrish (was<br/>           growing up from twelve to thirty-eight a second time)<br/>Alan Parrish (is<br/>          too fucking old for this shit)<br/>Alan Parrish (has<br/>           faced everything he thought life could throw at him)</p>
            </blockquote>





	an abundance of

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notalwaysweak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalwaysweak/gifts).
  * Inspired by [One and Two Total Three, Run Away From the Zombie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5451020) by [Lauren (notalwaysweak)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalwaysweak/pseuds/Lauren). 



> my lovely friend notalwaysweak ever so kindly let me play with her absolutely gorgeous sentences, and try to tug a poem out of them. The original story was her yuletide gift to me and is linked above, and it's one of my favorite things ever, so. You should probably read it, is what I'm saying ;) I'm not sure if it did justice to your amazing story, but I hope you like it, lady!!
> 
> Wiki's definition is: "Found poetry is a type of poetry created by taking words, phrases, and sometimes whole passages from other sources and reframing them as poetry (a literary equivalent of a collage) by making changes in spacing and lines, or by adding or deleting text, thus imparting new meaning." 
> 
> (meaning all the words in this are from her story, just somewhat rearranged.)

—

 

Alan Parrish (was  
        growing up from twelve to thirty-eight a second time)  
Alan Parrish (is  
        too fucking old for this shit)  
Alan Parrish (has  
        faced everything he thought life could throw at him)

Alan's backed up against  
his garage door  
brandishing his shovel  
at a zombie.

(the shovel he was using to dig out weeds)

The scientists finally found a cure for cancer.  
       (eradicate one disease,  
        get a whole new and  
        interesting one.)  
The last twenty-two years have had their own threats.

The zombie  
reaches for  
him; Alan  
bats it  
away with  
the shovel.

(the shovel he was using to dig out  
some particularly pervasive weeds)

 _Sarah!_ he hollers (again),  
        his throat hoarse.  
The zombie reaches for him.  
Alan bats it away with the shovel.

The last twenty-two years have had their own threats,  
all the hazards of the jungle  
(the actual jungle and suburban New Hampshire)

 _Sarah, I need you!_  
       (Hasn't he always _needed_ her?  
        to roll the dice,  
        to free him,  
        to love him.

        To hold him in the night  
               when the drums  
                      beat in his head  
                             and his breath condenses  
                                    jungle-hot in his lungs  
                                           strangling him from the inside-out—

        She understands his dislike of an  
        overabundance of growing green things)

It crumples long enough  
for him to step back again.  
The garage door begins to  
ratchet up behind him.

Sarah’s stern expression softens.  
       (checking carefully for any  
        splashes of blood,  
        any grazes or scrapes  
        in places he can't see)  
Alan goes ahead of her into the house.  
       (the little light on the  
        virus testing machine,  
        the handgun that's the last  
        piece of their decon equipment)  
Sarah didn't get anywhere near the zombie,  
so he won't have to use—

              (he loves her  
               and she loves him  
               and if the dice  
               ever roll  
               that way

               they'll do what

               they have do do.)

Alan puts the gun back back in its place  
       (a spring-clip mounted on the nearest cabinet)  
and opens the fridge, hunting out a frosty-cold  
beer, cracking the top, and taking a long drink.

His heart's going like a jackhammer and  
his breathing isn't any better.

_The last twenty-two years have had—_

The true j o y  
of falling in love with Sarah Whittle  
       ( _I did tell you not_  
        _to go outside alone_ ,  
        Sarah says)  
a love that starts out as a childish crush  
       ( _I think you better sit down,_  
        Sarah says,  
        hooking a chair out from  
        the table with her foot)  
and g r o w s  
       (she reaches out  
        and covers his  
        trembling hands  
        with hers)  
until it envelops them both.

(he loves her, and—)

_The nearest_  
_disposal team_  
_said they’re_  
_twenty minutes_  
_away,_  
_so I_  
        _shot it_  
_through the_  
_doggy door._

Alan's heart is not exactly comforted by this  
either as a physical thumping entity  
or as the more abstract location of  
his feelings for Sarah.

        _(The last twenty-two years—)_

       (She gives him a knowing look.)

       ( _I was the one with the gun._ )

She gets up  
returns to where she's been slicing  
cold chicken and ham.

She has bad hand days sometimes  
(the arthritis bites deep)  
He's glad today wasn't one of those  
glad her hand was quick  
       (on the door switch;  
        on the gun trigger)

Alan drinks the rest of his beer slowly,  
watching.  
Her hair is finespun gold and silver  
in the late afternoon light.

(he loves her, and—

        today she has  
        saved his life

        once  
        again.)


End file.
